


Snapped

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hospitalization, M/M, Mind Palace, Poor Mycroft, Poor Sherlock Holmes, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, holmescest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-27 03:36:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30116580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock has been struggling with his life since John's violent attack and Sherrinford. When things with the doctor get even more difficult and Mycroft interferes, Sherlock says something horrible that will turn their lives upside down.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 73
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts), [Wickedandelion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wickedandelion/gifts).



> Written for a prompt by Wickedandelion. I hope I did it justice! A big thank you for it, and also to my lovely friend SlytherinsDragon for all her encouragement.  
> I'm still struggling with my health and I'm glad I've managed to nearly finish this fic. Who knows if there will be more of them but this one did grip me.  
> 

“What in the bloody hell is wrong with you, _Doctor_?!”

Sherlock grabbed Lestrade’s wrist before he could wrap his hand around John’s throat. “Don’t. It was my fault.”

Lestrade’s head turned so fast that Sherlock could have sworn he had heard the sinews in the man’s neck make a terrible noise. “Stop taking the blame for his aggression, Sherlock! I won’t have it anymore!” He shot a death glare at John but made a step back so Sherlock let go of him. “What was it this time, Watson? He stepped on your foot?”

“He caused my wife’s death the last time if you may remember!” snapped the irritated doctor. “Don’t you dare belittle that!”

“Or what?” The DI gave him a nasty look. “I should have locked your sorry arse up when you kicked him into Smith’s hospital and you know it. I could do it this time.” He gestured at Sherlock's black eye.

Actually, Sherlock was stunned that Graham had figured out at once who had caused it. But probably he had seen it in the way they had been walking next to each other, both feeling uncomfortable. Well, Sherlock certainly did. He knew John was sorry for hitting him. He had said so. Well, he had insinuated it. And Sherlock could understand his rage. While doing an experiment, he had accidentally poured acidic fluid over one of Rosie’s toys. Thank God, not over the child. But that could have happened. She had scrambled into the kitchen and as absorbed in his activities as he had been, he had not noticed it. He had ordered a copy of the toy immediately and it had placated John a bit.

He told Lestrade in a few words what he had done. The DI glowered at him. “Your flat is too small for three people. I told you.”

John rolled his eyes. “Me and Rosie won’t live there forever. I… I just couldn’t stay in my flat. Everything reminded me of Mary…” He all but sobbed the last words, and Sherlock's heart clenched.

It was his fault that John was a widower now. That Rosie would grow up without her mother. He deserved all the beatings John would give him for that. And for all his other failures. If the others understood that or not… The very least he could do was welcoming John in his old home. Sure, he didn’t get a lot of sleep as Rosie used to start crying in the middle of the night but she was his goddaughter and it was his duty to take care of her. John needed his sleep since he also still worked at the clinic after all.

He shook his thoughts off impatiently. “What about the case, Glenn? It’s why we are here.”

“I could have done without him,” Lestrade said stubbornly, gesturing at John, who was of course fuming. “But well. Let’s get started…”

*****

“And, did you solve your case, Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson had come out of her flat, wiping her hands at her apron.

Sherlock shrugged. “I guess so. Lestrade’s off to arresting the man who should be the killer.” It had taken him an embarrassingly long time to make the right deductions. The lack of sleep, the tension between John and Gunther. It had not been pleasant.

“He stunned us all with his cleverness once more, Mrs Hudson,” John threw in, in a tone that made both their landlady and Sherlock wince. A tone between mockery and contempt. A tone that Sherlock had learned to not like that much over the past few weeks since they had moved in with one another again.

And Mrs Hudson as well, he noticed not for the first time. She gave him a long, compassionate look, her eyes darting to the massive shiner he was carrying, and then she mumbled something and returned into her flat, avoiding John’s look.

The doctor didn’t notice but led the way upstairs. Rosie was at day care because John would go to his shift at the clinic in a while. Sherlock followed him, his legs feeling as heavy as his heart.

The walls of 221B still smelt new and strangely foreign. Sherlock looked at his chair – a clone of the one that had gone up in flames when the patience grenade had detonated. It looked the same but it didn’t _feel_ the same.

Nothing felt the same, actually. And that probably didn’t have that much to do with the new wallpaper – and the new walls – and the new bed he was sleeping in. His job felt stale. He had stopped going to Sherrinford – seeing Eurus’ empty smile had made him feel increasingly uncomfortable.

Mummy was not amused about that. She kept calling him and telling him that his sister needed him. _“You’re her big brother, Sherlock. She deserves to be cared for. Your brother’s let her down for two decades; don’t do the same now.”_

John had called him a fool for ever going to Sherrinford to play duets with Eurus in the first place. Mrs Hudson was worried that he could be harmed. Lestrade had just shaken his head. She had killed people after all. She had threatened Mycroft's life and John’s life, too.

Not that Greg would have minded too much if she had made Sherlock kill _John_ , he supposed. It was all a mess. Nothing felt right anymore. He longed for the lightness of the first few years he’d had with John. But something told him it was gone forever. He shook his head. No. Everything would be fine again. He just had to be patient.

“What about tea?”

Sherlock, who had slumped in his uncomfortable chair, shot up again. “Sure, John.” He hurried to the kitchen to take care of it. ~~Getting away from John~~ Making tea calmed him down. He winced when his phone signalled a call.

Mummy. Again… He rejected the call and switched off his phone. He had a headache, a bad one. He just couldn’t endure his mother’s nagging now.

“Let me guess. Dear Mummy called to ask you when you can be arsed to hold sister dear’s hand again.”

Sherlock almost dropped the kettle as he had not heard John approaching. “Probably,” he mumbled. “Didn’t answer.”

John just chuckled and returned into the living room. Sherlock was suddenly feeling unbelievably tired. He knew things could not go on like this. He felt… trapped. In a life he had never wanted to be like this. But what to do about it? He couldn’t just throw John out of his life. He had made a vow. He had to protect him and Rosie, now that he had failed so badly at protecting Mary.

When he brought the tea, John gave him a nod. “Greg was really nasty to me.” His mood seemed to have darkened again.

Sherlock nodded and sat down. “Yes. I really am sorry for my mishap with the acid.”

“You should limit your crazy experiments to Bart’s,” John hissed.

Sherlock grimaced. “You know I don’t go there anymore. Molly…” She had not taken it well, being told that he did not actually love her. Not that she shouldn’t know that. She had forced him to say these stupid words after all.

“Ah, I told her that you’ll come back tomorrow.”

Sherlock stared at his flatmate. “You did what?”

John grinned. “And that you are planning to ask her out. It’s about time.”

Sherlock felt cold. “I don’t understand. You know I don’t want anything from her.” That was cruel – giving Molly wrong hopes. And cruel to him, too...

“Ah, you just need to get laid. That will solve your silly problems with having to play with dangerous substances. Or take them…”

“I… I can’t believe you did that. I will not go there.”

“But you will. Greg was right in a way. This flat _is_ too small for three people, especially with one being a toddler who discovers the world and one a crazy scientist who forgets where he is. So it will be good if you go out more.”

“Then why did you come back here in the first place?” Probably not just because he had felt out of place in the flat he had shared with Mary, Sherlock realised.

John leaned forward. “Because that’s our address, Sherlock. It’s famous. I need to live here. Mary knew that, too. You heard what she said about us on the DVD. And she just told me again last night.”

 _He’s crazy…_ Sherlock swallowed hard. What the hell had happened to his reasonable friend? He was a danger to himself and to him and probably to Rosie, too. Sherlock had not seen any hints that John was still talking to Mary’s ghost or whatever he had obviously communicated with. But apparently he was doing it when he was alone.

Just as panic was crawling up on him, because how was he supposed to live with a man who had obviously lost every bit of connection with real life and had become completely unpredictable, he heard a noise he had not heard for months. A knocker being straightened.

“Oh, fuck. You figure Greg told him?” John gestured at Sherlock's shiner with an exasperated eye-roll. “Big bro here to tell me off?”

Either that or Mummy had complained about him not going to Sherrinford anymore or answering his phone when she called – probably now Mycroft was the golden son and the ‘grown-up’ again after having been called ‘idiot boy’ not so long ago. And Sherlock doubted very much that Mycroft was here to ask for his help on a case. He had not done that… since Irene Adler, if he thought about it. And Mycroft had not come here since they had summoned him to tell the truth about Eurus after scaring him in his house.

It was getting dark and they had not bothered switching on the lights. So when Mycroft entered the flat after a sarcastic knock, Sherlock rearranged himself on his chair so his brother would not see the injured part of his face clearly. It was an automatic reaction.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Mycroft drawled. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” And with this, he casually leaned his umbrella against the table, stalked over to John and ripped him out of his chair.

John was a fighter, an ex-soldier, but he had not seen the attack coming, and neither had Sherlock. With his mouth open, he watched his sophisticated, _I-hate-legwork_ brother punch his friend in the face, sending him to the floor with a nasty thud. John had a thick skull though and was everything but a weakling and instantly tried to get back up with a furious and pained groan but he was stopped by – Mycroft's elegantly shod foot being kicked directly into his face with astonishing force.

Sherlock felt like fainting when he saw the blood on now unconscious John’s face. “Mycroft,” he rasped out. “Are you out of your mind?”

Mycroft turned to him like a viper. “Am I? Or are you?” He pointed at the man on the floor. “He did it again, Sherlock. He hit you. Was it the third time? Or has it happened more often?”

“What’s it to you! It’s none of your business. Nothing that concerns me is anything of your business,” yelled Sherlock, his head spinning at the suddenness and unexpectedness of awful events happening.

“Is it not? You’re my brother, Sherlock, and I care -…”

“Just stop it! You have no right to barge in like here and avenge me like some superman for the poor. I told you before – I’m not a child anymore and I make my own decisions!”

“But they are _stupid_ decisions!” Mycroft yelled back, pointing at him now. “You’re weak and irresponsible and I won’t allow my brother to be a punching bag for Mr Domestic Violence here!”

“Just go away! I wish I _had_ shot you in Sherrinford so I would finally be rid of you!” Sherlock closed his mouth with an audible noise as the words he had just shouted echoed in his ears.

Mycroft stared at him, his face falling almost comically, and then he nodded. His voice was completely toneless when he said, “Very well. Enjoy your life at the end of Doctor Watson’s fist then. Goodbye.” He grabbed his umbrella and walked out without another word.

Sherlock stared at his back and then he sunk to the floor, next to John, burying his face in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear - this is not a fic about Sherlock's messed-up relationship with John. John will not be important anymore after the first chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

“Where is he?” Sherlock asked while stalking out of Mycroft's office back into Anthea’s.

“Not here.” Despite the sassy, laconic reply, she was looking at him with more concern – and compassion? – than he had ever gotten from his brother’s efficient but cold PA. Not that he cared about that right now.

Sherlock ignored her scrutiny. He knew how he was looking. Gaunt. Pale. Dark shadows beneath his eyes. His hair was a mess and so was he.

The past two weeks had been hell. Worse than any period of time he had experienced since going on his mission to tear down Moriarty’s network. A shiver went down his spine but he shook it off. He was not here to gain Anthea’s sympathy. He was here to see his brother.

“He doesn’t answer his phone. It seems his calls are forwarded but nobody else takes them,” he said, his voice raspy from disuse. There had not been many words these past weeks. Only tears. Sometimes screams.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Anthea grabbed for the pot on her desk.

His throat was screaming for hot fluid. Still he shook his head impatiently. “I want to know where my brother is.” _‘And I’m not leaving before you’ve told me’_ was clearly audible between the lines. “I’ve been to his house. Nobody has been there for weeks.” Since he had said these… unspeakable words to Mycroft. He had used his key to get in. Everything had been neat and almost sterile. No sign of his brother.

He had not texted him until days after the awful incident. He had not been able to, and even if he’d had been, he wouldn’t have known how to say sorry for this monstrosity. Words he had not even slightly meant. Where had they even come from? Oh yes. They had come from this ocean of resentments that had always engulfed them. Even though there had been moments when they had been closer – like in that conversation right before the patience grenade had detonated. In Sherrinford, in this other awful moment. But that had been Mycroft at his worst. Contemptuous, intrusive. Knowing everything better.

Of course he had been right, his big brother. Like he had basically always been, no matter how hard Sherlock had fought him. John… was not good for him anymore. Not that it mattered. He was gone. He had packed his stuff, taken his daughter, and left Sherlock's life for good. Well, if it really was for good was left to be seen. But after waking up from his unconsciousness, the doctor had refused to speak a single word with him after screaming at him for not keeping Mycroft from attacking him so viciously.

And Mycroft, who had always offered the olive branch to him in the past, had always forgiven him for his failures, for twisting his arm, betraying the country, shooting someone in front of him, calling John family to get back at him for lying about Eurus, had not talked to him either. Not come by and pretended that nothing had happened. Not reacted to his texts and calls when Sherlock had finally gathered enough courage to contact him when he had realised that Mycroft would not make the first step this time. Because Mycroft had… disappeared? God… He was not… _dead_ , was he? But no. Anthea had looked worried when she had watched him storming in and bursting into Mycroft's office, but not as if she was grieving. And she and Mycroft might not be exactly friends but she _would_ grieve for him, wouldn’t she? But then – she was pale, too, he realised when finally seriously focusing on her appearance. Had lost weight since he had last seen her. Her bottom lip looked as if she had been frequently gnawing at it.

Sherlock felt as if he was close to fainting. “Tell me he’s not -…” He broke off, unable to say the word.

Anthea huffed out a deep sigh. “No, he’s alive, Sherlock. But… we can’t reach him.”

Sherlock shook his head, confused. “You mean he’s left London without his phone?” Abandoned his job for Queen and country because Sherlock had… hurt him?

A weary half-smile was his answer. “I wish it was just that. Sit down. And drink your tea.” She gestured at the chair opposite of her desk. “I should have known you would come, even though you never seemed to care about him.”

The words stung. But were they wrong? Not really. But he was here now. “Tell me.” He took the mug after slumping heavily into the uncomfortable chair, and his hand was shaking. And when Anthea told him what had happened to his brother on the day Sherlock had said those cruel words to him, he could do nothing but stare at her in disbelieving terror and mind-numbing guilt.

*****

“It’s been the same every day since we’ve found him,” Anthea said quietly. “He doesn’t move. Doesn’t react to stimulation. To noises or a hammer to his knee. He could as well be in a coma.”

But he wasn’t, Sherlock thought while looking down at the man who had basically taught him everything. From swimming to making deductions. And building a mind palace. And that’s where Mycroft was now. Unwilling or unable to return to reality, he might be roaming rooms in his personal palace that were dedicated to… what, fond memories of the past? Of days at the beach? Personal achievements? Tea at Buckingham Palace?

Sherlock had no idea about the structure of his brother’s certainly meticulously created memory realm. It was surely very different from his own. And he had chosen to get lost in it after Sherlock had… wounded him much deeper than he had already thought.

Anthea had told him that they had made all kinds of tests when he had been found in his house after not coming to work the day after that hideous argument. It had been her who had figured out what her boss had done.

Looking around in the bright, efficiently but rather appealingly furnished room in this private and very discreet and nondescript hospital for the rich and the famous, Sherlock recalled himself hissing, _“Why did you not inform me?”_ And how his heart had clenched in agony when Anthea had closed her eyes for a moment and said, taking a small piece of paper out of the top drawer of her desk, _“Because next to him we found this.”_ And he had taken the note that had instantly reminded him of the one Molly had handed him when he had come to see John after Mary’s death, and he had read with no surprise whatsoever but deep sadness:

‘ _Don't tell Sherlock.’_

Despite assuming that Sherlock could be of help, Anthea and the doctors and all the important people who relied on Mycroft's hard work, expertise and unique talents had respected his wish, trying in any possible way to lure Mycroft out of his self-chosen inner prison. Without any success.

“I hoped that you would come and demand to know where he is,” the beautiful woman at his side said softly now. “Nobody but you can bring him back.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “If he chooses to stay locked up, I can’t.” He was staring at the motionless man in the hospital bed. Mycroft looked peaceful. Younger than he had done for years. Pale and slimmer than ever, too, though. His eyes were closed, his hands relaxed. Sherlock thought that he had obviously gone to a pleasant place in his mind. Why should he come back to face this awful world again? A world with nothing but work and dealing with ghastly goldfish, being insulted by his own parents for something he had done for their own good – leaving them in the dark about their monster of a daughter. A world with the awful memories of Sherrinford, being brought back in the meanest possible way by the little brother he had always cared for.

“He did it because of you,” Anthea said in a neutral tone. It was the first time that she made a remark like this.

There was no sense in denying it. And she had certainly read his texts to Mycroft anyway, in which he had not repeated his godawful words but had said clearly enough that he had hurt him tremendously. “Yes. I… said something unforgivable to him.” Not just unforgivable. Add totally stupid, cruel and idiotic, Sherlock thought bitterly. Mycroft had done nothing else but defend him. Avenge him. Yes, because he had thought that Sherlock wouldn’t stand up for himself against John. And that had been true, hadn’t it? And now John was gone anyway and Mycroft…

“Then make it better and bring him back,” Anthea urged him, her voice harder now. “Only you can do it. Not just because nobody else knows much about this mind palace thing but… he always cared a lot about you.”

“Caring is not an advantage,” Sherlock heard himself parroting the words Mycroft had said to him all those years ago. And it really wasn’t. Caring meant getting hurt by people who didn’t appreciate being cared for. Mycroft had surely known what he was talking about…

“No. At least not if it concerns him caring for you,” Anthea mumbled cruelly, and Sherlock winced even though she was clearly right. “But he does, and that’s why he is in this condition. Has to have all these humiliating things done to him…” She gestured at the equipment that had been applied to artificially feed Mycroft and take care of his bodily functions as if Sherlock had missed them. “It costs him so much.”

“You mean it costs the kingdom so much,” Sherlock shot back, feeling defensive. Someone had to pay for Mycroft's stay here, for all the care he was obviously getting. Nobody was doing his job in the meantime. Nobody was connecting the dots every day, predicting terror attacks or other unpleasant developments.

Anthea shook her head, looking rather pissed off now. “I did not mean that. Yes, we need him and we want him back. Healthy and in a good state of mind. But much more important than that, I want him to have his life back. Be happy.”

“My brother has never been happy,” Sherlock said, surprising himself with this discovery. But why even? Neither of them had a happy disposition after all. Happiness was for the goldfish, who didn’t even realise how fucked up their existence actually was.

“That’s true. But he could have been. If you’d just treated him better.” Her tone was strident.

Sherlock rubbed his face. He had certainly never added to his brother’s possible happiness. And Anthea probably knew it all, had seen Mycroft return to work after Sherlock had pushed him against the wall in the beginning of the Magnussen case. Perhaps she and Mycroft had been closer than Sherlock had thought. Perhaps Mycroft had complained about his ghastly behaviour over the past… decades. No, probably he had not done that. But Anthea knew it anyway. “What shall I do?” he asked nobody in particular. “If he doesn’t want to come back -…”

“Well, you have to find a way. You’re so clever after all. You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

He was. And yet, he had never felt stupider and more inadequate in his life. But Mycroft's current condition was his fault. He owed his brother to do what he could to make him return so he could say sorry. There was no way to take back the acidic words he had hurled at his brother. But they could turn over a new leaf and try to work on their relationship. Well, _Sherlock_ could work on _his_ part. Mycroft had, in whatever annoying way, indeed always been there for him.

He stepped closer to the bed and gently put his hand on Mycroft's arm, feeling the absurd urge to pull the curly forelock from his brother’s face. “Mycroft,” he said, loudly. “It’s time to come back. You were right. John… is gone. I’m sorry.”

He had not really thought this would work, and it didn’t. Mycroft didn’t stir in his silent posture. Looking strangely small in his large bed, his brother continued to look dead to the world.

“Can he hear us?” Anthea asked, her tone free of the former fury and sarcasm.

“I don't think so. He’s too deep in his mind.” It was a fact-based guess, judging from his own experiences with being thoroughly lost in his mind palace, muting everything and everybody to focus on a puzzle that needed to be solved without being disturbed.

But this was no organic problem. Mycroft could decide to open his senses to what was going on in this room anytime. He could open his eyes and be back in the situation within a second. This was not an illness. It was a choice.

But Sherlock would have to work hard to get through to him. And he had no idea how to do it.

Anthea was right though. He was Sherlock Holmes. He would find a way. There was nobody else to do it. He would bring Mycroft back so his brother could roll his eyes at him and yell at him and tell him how ghastly he was, and then Sherlock would apologise and they would make a fresh start.

Sherlock didn’t want to entertain the possibility that his brother was gone for good because he was completely through with him and the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt included Sherlock saying those nasty words to Mycroft and Mycroft shutting himself off in his mind palace. I ran with the story from there on.


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh, there you are, Sherlock. Your lovely DI was here, said you’re not answering your phone. And a client -… What’s wrong with you, dear?”

Sherlock looked into his landlady’s worried eyes, unsure how to put this disaster in words. What was _not_ wrong? It spoke volumes of how well she knew him that she even saw that he felt even more desperate than when he had left the house to finally get hold of his brother. And he had done so, in a very literal way he had never even thought possible. He had literally gotten hold of his arm. The limp arm of an unconscious man at his most vulnerable, and by choice above all. At the mercy of strangers, his bodily functions being taken care of… No, Sherlock would have never thought that Mycroft would let this happen voluntarily. It could have been an accident – if it hadn’t been for the note…

“It’s my brother, Mrs Hudson. He… is not well.”

She knew about their confrontation. He had told her what he had said to him when she had found him, rolled up on the floor of his flat after John had left. She had comforted him and made him get up, brought him tea and biscuits and words of support and compassion like his actual mother had never done when he had been hurting in his youth. Mummy, solid and – in her own eyes – infallible Mummy, would have sternly told him to get up and stop with this whining and feeling sorry for himself. Mrs Hudson had said nothing of the kind even though she was not Mycroft's biggest fan after all…

“He’s in a hospital,” he mumbled, nervously fumbling with his coat collar. “Not injured but…” He swallowed hard.

Mrs Hudson hummed compassionately. She patted his arm and said, “Oh, please come in then. Talk to me about it. I’ll make you a nice cuppa of hot chocolate.”

He nodded and followed her into her neat, homely flat, a place that always smelled like cake and Earl Grey and care. After two hours in Mycroft's hospital room – Anthea had left them alone after a few minutes – talking to a man out of this world, he felt completely exhausted. A hot beverage and some wise words would not go amiss. He definitely needed any help and advice he could get...

*****

The sweet, warm fluid was balm on his troubled soul. For about two seconds. Then he recalled that his brother was hospitalised and was fed through a bloody tube and used to pee into a Foley bag these days…

Mrs Hudson gave him a knowing look when he put the mug onto the table with shivering fingers. “My poor Sherlock. This must be horrible for you. The guilt…”

He grimaced. Nobody had to remind him that this was his fault. Rubbing salt into this wound was hardly necessary.

“But it could have been much worse,” the old lady continued, making him wince even harder.

Yes. Mycroft could have _killed_ himself… But nobody did that because of some hurtful words from somebody who was the master of throwing insults at them, did they? The thought that his brother could have been gone for good made him feel nauseous. How to live with that… But Mycroft had thought in Sherrinford that Sherlock would shoot him without even blinking. As if!

“He can wake up anytime,” Mrs Hudson mused. “He’s not dead. And… he made sure nobody tells you about his condition so if you sought him out, it would be your own decision.”

Sherlock thought about that while warming his hands at the mug. Had Mycroft really even considered that he would regret his nasty words enough to say sorry from eye to eye instead of repeatedly texting his apology to him? Or had he thought Sherlock would give it up and let him unknowingly fade away in this posh hospital? Sherlock could hardly imagine that Mycroft had that much faith in him… He had never given big brother any reason for that. “I just… don’t know what to do. I stayed there for hours, talked to him. Yelled at him _… [“Get your arse back already, brother! You’re giving the word sulking a whole new meaning!”]_ ”

He had even shaken the motionless figure on the bed, albeit cautiously, had even briefly pinched him, hoping Mycroft would open his eyes in outrage. Nothing had happened. His brother had not even breathed faster – Sherlock had taken his pulse. If Mycroft had really thought Sherlock would find out where he was and hurry to his side to wake him up and apologise for his latest misdeed in person, he surely had not shown it… Sherlock cringed at the thought that Mycroft might have simply left this world because he didn’t want to be a burden for him any longer. Since John allegedly was his ‘family’ and he had taken his side again, even with the latest proof of the man’s violence…

Had his brother really not heard him? Muted every noise around him? Was he lying at a sunny beach perhaps in his imagination like he had never actually had the time for and didn’t see any reason for even paying a hint of attention to his surroundings? Or had he listened to Sherlock's begging and heartfelt words of regret and just didn’t return to punish him or enjoy his menace of a baby brother’s meek behaviour a little longer? God, Sherlock even hoped he did. He didn’t even want to imagine that Mycroft had gotten completely lost in his own mind – because it could happen.

“ _Way too deep, Sherlock, way too deep,”_ he recalled imagined-Moriarty telling him in his own mind palace when he had been on the plane to Eastern Europe. This technique was a fascinating thing. So useful and brilliant – and dangerous. A mental trap for the uber-intelligent.

If his brother didn’t find his way back, England would fall. And Sherlock would never be able to live with this guilt. Damn. He had never appreciated big brother. Not his constant meddling in his life, not his mother-hen-concern, not his larger-than-life shadow above his existence. But now he had to realise that he could not even imagine a world in which Mycroft wasn’t trying to make him behave, stay sober and keep his sorry arse out of trouble.

“I don't know what to do,” Sherlock said. “How to bring him back.”

“You must try. You don't know him very well, do you?” Mrs Hudson sipped at her tea.

“No,” Sherlock said in a hopeless voice. “Not at all.” He knew that Mycroft liked expensive clothes and whiskey. His peace and quiet. Preferred if his siblings didn’t kill people. That he despised the goldfish and adored the Queen. But know him really, as a person? Not in the least.

“Find out what he likes. Play some music for him.”

Yes! He would take his violin to the hospital tomorrow. Fine, it had not had that much impact on Eurus after all. But he would definitely try. And he would go to his brother’s house and see if he could find something that Mycroft would like to… hear or touch or smell or whatever. “That’s a good idea. Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” he said gratefully, touching the old woman’s hand.

She gave him a sad smile. “I feel bad about it, too. Whenever he was here, I was really nasty to him… I mean he’s not the easiest of people to be around, but he clearly cares for you, and I didn’t waste a thought on his… feelings when I said those not-so-nice things to him.”

Sherlock returned the smile. “My brother is very good at making people believe that he has no such things as feelings.” And he had believed it, too, hadn’t he? Or rather not wasted a thought on Mycroft being secretly vulnerable, either. It had been so much more convenient to be awful to him…

“I shouldn’t have fallen for that,” Mrs Hudson replied. “I should have known he’s not a reptile. He’s like _you_. Ice on the outside and candy on the inside.”

What an interesting way to describe them both. But yes. Sherlock couldn’t deny that he was not nearly as cold as people thought. And Mycroft was no Iceman either. In his job, surely. But not by design. And definitely not when he, Sherlock, was concerned. Even though Sherlock had given him plenty of reasons to shut him out. Again and again… He drank from his chocolate and found it to taste bitter all at once.

“I have faith in you, Sherlock. You’ll sort it out. Solve this case.”

Yes. Basically it was a case to solve. The game was on. It was a game that Sherlock would have loved to skip. But tough chance. It was what it was. This phrase had never seemed truer.

He bent forward and brushed a kiss on his landlady’s wrinkled cheek. “Thank you for everything, Mrs Hudson. You’re so much wiser than anyone gives you credit for.”

Her eyes were full of tears when she spoke. “I wish that was true. I wish I had seen what John had become before allowing him back into your life.” She reached out and gently touched the fading bruise beneath Sherlock's eye.

He didn’t even notice it anymore. And… He did not miss John. “That’s nothing.” When had John become so meaningless to him? After destroying the last bit of bond he’d had with his brother, sending him over the edge?

God… His life really was a mess. But he had been given the chance to make it better. Without being in a friendship-relationship that had become abusive. By caring for his brother, who had really not deserved this fate. It was time to become what Mummy had recently only called him to hurt Mycroft – the grown-up.

*****

When he had just entered his flat, his phone chirped in his coat pocket. He ripped it out, hoping to see Anthea calling with good news about Mycroft being back in the world of the conscious. But it was Lestrade.

He answered with a sigh while slipping out of his coat. “Yes, Gus.” He let himself drop into his chair, crossing his legs. He had not bothered with switching on the lights. He had learned to like the darkness.

“ _You know, not that long ago you_ did _remember my first name… Which was quite nice.”_

Yes, Sherlock thought vaguely. After the Sherrinford visit… What was it again? Oh yes. “Fine, _Greg_.” People and their oversensitivity with their godforsaken names… “Let me guess – you need help. Out of your depth again?”

Lestrade sounded a bit miffed when he answered. _“I’ve always thought it’s a win-win-situation. You help me catch killers, I provide some excitement and distraction for the bored genius.”_

Of course he was right. Busying himself with interesting puzzles had saved Sherlock many times – from getting crazy or high, for example. But Sherlock did not feel any urge to chase after a murderer tonight. He already had a case to solve… “I’m not in the mood. My brother… is sick. I need to focus on him.”

Stunned silence was his answer. He couldn’t blame Lestrade. It wasn’t as if he had cared for Mycroft’s well-being ever before after all, and Lestrade, who had met Mycroft from time to time and only when Sherlock had gotten himself into some kind of trouble, had to know that. _“I see. It’s serious, then?”_

Sherlock was rather touched by the concern in the DI’s tone. “In a way. It’s not really a physical problem. And he’s not a case for the lunatic asylum either,” he hurried to add, shushing the unwelcome image of a drooling Mycroft in a straight-jacket.

“ _I’m pretty sure that’s not the socially acceptable term for it these days,”_ was Lestrade’s (predictable) answer. _“But then you never cared about such things, did you.” And neither did you care for your_ brother _,_ was easy to read between the lines.

“Listen, send me what you’ve got,” Sherlock spontaneously changed his mind. Perhaps looking at some juicy crime scene pictures and solving a probably easy case would cleanse his mind so he could focus even better on the main problem afterwards.

Lestrade agreed at once, and Sherlock spent the next hour with firing off deductions to an empty flat, which was actually quite pleasant – no backchat, no stupid questions, no silly _‘you have to care about the victim, Sherlock’_. He called the policeman back with the solution and accepted the man’s heartfelt gratitude with patience, reminding him that officially he had never heard about this case and did not wish to take any credit for solving it.

When he had ended the connection, he hurried to take a hot shower, and then he went to bed rather early to wreck his mind about the man his brother was, to conjure up all the good memories he had of his childhood, in which Mycroft had been very prominent, to find something that he could use to hopefully convince his brother to leave the confinements of his own mind and return to the world.

He knew that this case would be a lot more difficult to solve.


End file.
